


Paint a Vulgar Picture

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything he's learned, Arthur still can't let Curt go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint a Vulgar Picture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mercury Starlight (WoolandWater)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoolandWater/gifts).



> The title and the quote at the beginning are both from the Smiths' song Paint a Vulgar Picture. I have to thank ALittleWhos-This for the quick and helpful beta read on this piece and my other Yuletide pieces. Finally, dear recip, I hope this treat rings true to your view of the characters, and fits the bill for you.

> I touched you at the sound check  
>  You had no real way of knowing in my heart, I begged take me with you
> 
> But to you I was faceless  
>  I was fawning, I was boring; a child from those ugly new houses who could never begin to know…

 

Arthur knows he’s going to regret this. He’s too old to have passed by the same seedy bar week after week and then try to tell himself that _Curt_ was waiting for _him_ when they finally run into each other. He should be older and wiser than this.

Apparently not. Curt nods at him, smiles. Arthur’s heart seems to stop, then start again, knocking against his rib cage. He thinks Curt looks glad to see him – less guarded than that night a month ago, and rather sweet, though sweet is not the first word that should come to mind when you think of Curt Wild. But Arthur’s usually good at reading people. He had to learn, after his father.

Curt jerks his head toward the empty seat across from him. _Inviting me_ , Arthur thinks, and actually cringes. Everything he’s learned goes right out the window when it comes to Curt. Inside, apparently, he’s still the same stupid kid who thought he would go away with Curt Wild and be his boyfriend or something instead of a nameless, faceless groupie because this was real life and not the daydreams of a naïve boy who’d only just left home.

Curt’s gesture, that small nod of his head in Arthur’s direction, is almost imperceptible, but not quite. He holds Arthur’s gaze. Arthur feels his face go hot as he stands in the doorway, frozen. Then Curt rolls his eyes at Arthur’s hesitation ( _as if he didn’t hesitate before walking away from_ me _, last time…_ ) and Arthur hurries to join him.

“Came back?” Curt asks.

Arthur pulls out the second chair with a scrape that echoes in the near emptiness around them. He grins at Curt – probably looks like an idiot doing it – and tries to think of a reply. For a moment his mind is blank. His pulse quickens; he almost wishes he hadn’t gotten himself into this mess.

And yet, that smile is still on Curt’s face. It warms him, emphasizes the lines around his mouth and eyes, and makes him look less feral, more human. Arthur swallows.

“Yeah,” he manages. “I, um – I see you did, too.”

A long pause. Arthur bites down hard on his lip. Curt probably comes here often, probably lives nearby; it’s nothing to do with Arthur…

He wonders how long they can go without speaking. Then Curt gives a low chuckle and pulls his chair in closer to the table, covering Arthur’s hand with his own for a split second. Arthur grimaces. He _likes_ that – of course he does – the weight of Curt’s hand on his and the feeling of being unable to pull away. He hopes it’s deliberate on Curt’s part. It must be, and yet, Curt can’t remember him from ten years ago. Arthur had searched and searched his face the last time they met. The night had seemed perfect, somehow, after everything Arthur had been forced to relive and remember, only that way of thinking was stupid. Curt’s manner had meant nothing, and the pin tucked safely away in Arthur’s breast pocket was just an old memento Curt had wanted to be rid of. That was all it _could_ be.

Arthur has told himself all this dozens of times in the last few weeks. He’s had to. Curt has lived in a different world than Arthur’s. For all Arthur’s hanging on, his traveling with a second rate glam band, and his one night stand with Curt, he could never, ever achieve more than a glimpse from the sidelines. He never made a difference to Curt or anyone.

His obsession looks sadder than ever in light of that fact.

“Let me get you something,” Curt says at last.

Hope flares in Arthur before he can suppress it. His eyes meet Curt’s; he nods, resisting the urge to look away and down at the grime-encrusted table.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

“No problem.”

Then it’s Curt’s turn to hesitate, as if he, too, might be shy in his way. Arthur hopes he’s not acting off-putting. Curt may not be looking for boyfriend material – or _be_ boyfriend material, for that matter – but Arthur won’t say no to another one night stand if Curt will have him, and doesn’t want to appear cold or disinterested, even if he knows he should protect himself. He won’t: the point is moot. Better _not_ to put Curt off.

“I mean it,” Arthur says. “Really.”

“Hey, it’s fine.” Curt cuts him off with a shrug. “I wasn’t–” He gives Arthur a knowing smile which Arthur would like to think is a smile of recognition. “I wasn’t all that friendly a couple weeks ago.”

With that Curt looks down to take another cigarette from the pack in his pocket. When he turns back to Arthur he stares at him hard enough to make Arthur’s whole body warm. There’s no question that he can go home with Curt tonight.

“No,” Arthur says, remembering Curt’s last comment. “I mean, you were great.” He fumbles in his pocket, clasps the green pin, and shows it to Curt, holding it out reverently before tucking it away again. “Really – I’m really grateful–”

Curt grins. “I’m glad.”

He gestures to a waiter. Arthur worries at his lower lip, wondering how long it’s been. The few minutes he’s spent talking with Curt seem to have stretched on in an endless, awkward, aching suspense, though he wouldn’t leave for anything in the world.

“Whisky,” Curt tells the waiter. “Neat. Arthur?”

“Beer, please,” Arthur replies, as he had weeks ago. He’ll need something in him to cope with his nerves, and it can’t possibly make his judgment any worse than it already is.

“Did you get that story done?” Curt asks once they’re alone again.

“What?” Arthur says before he can stop himself. _Pathetic_ , he thinks. _I_ know _what story._

“Never mind,” he says quietly. “And I didn’t. It got cancelled, in the end.”

Curt frowns.

“Shame,” he says. He keeps his voice low, and his manner is gentle enough to remind Arthur of that night on that rooftop, before Curt disappeared on him in the cold, clear light of day.

“I’m not surprised,” Curt adds, leaning in close enough for Arthur to smell his cigarette smoke and sharp aftershave. “It’s a shame but not - I’m not surprised. Sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Arthur says, “but thanks.”

The waiter returns with their drinks. Curt nods at him before downing a sip. Arthur watches him, utterly absorbed. He remembers kissing that mouth, the feel of Curt’s lips and tongue and teeth and, afterward, of Curt inside him, that perfect sensation of being filled _almost_ more than he could bear, and driven over the edge…

But Arthur also remembers the next few days and the realization that he was nothing to Curt, despite all his hero worship. He remembers Paul, his first real boyfriend after his glam phase, when he was trying to go back to school and needed a place to crash and some sort of companionship. He’d mentioned Curt to Paul once, on a night when they’d had a few drinks and gotten to talking about past loves. Paul was kind about it and smiled at the time. Three months later, of course, he’d thrown it back in Arthur’s face. Arthur had started the row without meaning to by complaining about the places they always went to – cheap, out of the way pubs or restaurants where none of Paul’s work mates would see them – and Paul had snapped at him, asked if he wasn’t good enough for Arthur because Arthur had once gotten stoned out of his mind and let some flash-in-the-pan rock singer fuck him. Arthur had been as shocked as he would have been if Paul had hit him, though there was some truth to the question. That sense of wanting things that were so far beyond his reach that he must be an idiot even to try, and that fear that he was throwing others away in the meantime, had stayed with him for years.

They finish their drinks in silence. Arthur has to pull himself out of his thoughts, his memories, because he can’t _not_ drink in Curt’s presence. He’s learned to take what he can get and be grateful. He can’t expect to be remembered, or expect that Curt would have stayed with a kid like him, years ago. Even Paul hadn’t stayed with Arthur. Hell, his own parents hadn’t cared enough about him to keep him around. The thought makes Arthur’s chest constrict.

Raucous laughter behind them breaks the stillness. Curt narrows his eyes, then glances down at the table as Arthur cranes his neck to see what’s happening. One of the bar’s few patrons, an older man, stands laughing and muttering at a table of three college kids who draw closer together. One of them tells the old man to fuck off.

Arthur turns away.

“I shouldn’t even be drinking this now,” Curt mutters. “Supposedly. Part of getting clean and all that.” His mouth twists; he shakes his head wryly at Arthur. “But it’s been a while.”

“Well, a few weeks,” Arthur says. Then he wants to kick himself: he has no business joking about Curt’s struggles or even sounding like he might be joking. He doesn’t _know_ Curt, though he has followed his life for years through magazines and papers, driven by that admiration and love or at least obsession that he has never quite left behind.

Curt shrugs, settles his hand on Arthur’s elbow and brushes Arthur’s leg with his own. Arthur’s breath hitches in his throat.

“You could keep me out of trouble tonight,” Curt teases, whispering into Arthur’s ear. It’s a weak line, though Curt can pull it off. Arthur swallows, suppressing a shudder of need.

“I think I’d rather get _into_ trouble,” he murmurs, like the idiot that he is. Curt is good enough to laugh anyway.

“Well, you don’t look it,” he says.

And Arthur’s stomach twists. He knows he’s boring, ordinary; he’s nothing special, but he wishes Curt hadn’t reminded him of the fact.

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” Curt says. His grip on Arthur’s arm tightens. “I liked that –you working so hard on the Brian Slade article and seeming–” He pauses. His grin brightens the smoky, dingy room, and his fingers are _so_ warm against the skin of Arthur’s forearm below the sleeve of his t shirt.

“Kinda smart, I guess,” Curt teases. “Level-headed, or something. Worth corrupting.”

Arthur shakes his head. He’s none of those things. He’s a little too old to corrupt, and if he were at all smart he wouldn’t still be pining for Curt in the first place. If he had any sense he would have moved on long ago.

“I don’t think so,” Arthur says. He draws back and picks at the skin around his thumbnail, painfully aware of how clumsy he is at flirting, and _needing_ to look away from Curt. “I don’t know what to say.”

Curt scoffs. “That you’ll come with, obviously. This place is a dive anyway.”

That’s true enough. Curt squeezes Arthur’s arm again. Arthur feels himself flush deeper. He’s like a moth to a flame; he will always, always follow Curt if given the chance, even if he’ll get nothing more out of it than one good shag and another ten years of obsession and insecurity.

He gazes up at Curt again, looks him full in the face this time.

“I won’t say no.”

Curt relaxes. He leans back in his chair, exhales his cigarette smoke, and beams at Arthur. Arthur wonders once again if there might be something more to Curt’s smile than mere satisfaction, and once again tries to quash that hope. But it’s too late to back out, and he likes to think that his eyes are more open now than when he was seventeen. Besides, it’s been too damn long since he’s slept with anyone, which is just pathetic. He could use a good shag. It’ll be nothing more, but Arthur knows to take what he can get.


End file.
